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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25518427">God is in the Details</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghermez/pseuds/ghermez'>ghermez</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>a sample of the life [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blow Jobs, M/M, Post-Time Skip, Tattoos, kita is holy, pining is great, pining is lovely, undoing someone's apron ties can be quite intimate</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:28:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,541</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25518427</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghermez/pseuds/ghermez</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Osamu sends an accidental naked picture of his tattoo to Kita Shinsuke, former high school volleyball club captain and current business partner.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kita Shinsuke/Miya Osamu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>a sample of the life [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956544</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>376</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>God is in the Details</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Atsumu (11:34 P.M.): I don’t care. I’ve seen your ass so many times I can recognize it anywhere.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I don’t care I’m not sending you a picture of my ass </em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Atsumu (11:35 P.M.): Come on! It’s just ONE picture. Send it over Snapchat. I won’t take a screenshot. I promise.</b>
</p>
<p>There aren’t many things Osamu lets wriggle under his skin, but he never had the choice of letting Atsumu in, they were born intertwined. And after two long months of Atsumu begging him for a picture, his resolve weakened.</p>
<p>First, he makes sure to close the blinds tight. He doesn’t need Mrs. Nakamara peeping in. Then, he makes quick work of his clothes, peeling off his T-shirt, then his jeans. He fingers the waistband of his boxers. The tattoo of the stylized black and white fox begins somewhere in the middle of his left thigh, spanning over his hips and its tufty ears end just at his lower ribs.</p>
<p>It is his gift to himself for his twenty-seventh birthday (Atsumu made it a point to object that <em> he </em> didn’t get a similarly expensive gift) and for signing papers expanding the shop in a new location.</p>
<p>Or so he tells himself.</p>
<p>He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror, and he can’t help but smile to himself. The fox’s ears are so big and lovely, its eyes bright. There is a reason he doesn’t want to show Atsumu the tattoo. The fox possesses eyes glaringly similar to someone they know. The last thing Osamu needs is Atsumu bringing <em> that </em> topic to light.</p>
<p>But he’s growing exhausted with Atsumu’s daily request to see the tattoo. If it wasn’t for Atsumu’s busy schedule, Osamu might have gotten stripped naked in his very own shop. With a heavy sigh, Osamu pulls his last garment down and braces himself. He’s never taken naked pictures of himself. His body has changed in many aspects since high school. His shoulders feel broader—he needs to squeeze himself into places that weren’t that tight before, his feet shot up two sizes, and his T-shirts are all far too stretchy. He pats his stomach, which is soft enough that he might be growing a belly. He likes it.</p>
<p>Well, there is no point dragging this out.</p>
<p>He tries a picture through the front facing camera, but that’s an exhausting task of twisting his body and holding his arm far away. He changes the setting, then quickly wipes down his mirror. His cheeks turn warm, seeing his nakedness in the mirror, but he eyes the fox climbing his side instead. With a subtle tilt of his torso, his thigh positioned so the fox looks like it’s moving with him, Osamu took a picture. He doesn’t bother with a caption, hurrying to send it, his fingers moving quickly.</p>
<p>It's only six seconds after he hears the <em> whoosh </em> sound that Osamu gets a text.</p>
<p>
  <b>Atsumu (12:02 A.M.): Well? Come on? I promise I won’t show Shouyou though he’s curious.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I just did wtf???? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Atsumu (12:03 A.M.): WAIT LET ME CHECK</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Atsumu (12:04 A. M.): What the fuck, bro? You didn’t! Such a fuckin’ tease!</b>
</p>
<p>He’s walking out of the bathroom, turning the lights off, his boxers back on, frowning at his cell phone. He changes applications back to Snapchat. But it’s not Atsumu’s username at the top of his list.</p>
<p>It’s Kita’s.</p>
<p>If anyone looks into the second window to the left atop the Onigiri Miya shop, they would glimpse one Miya Osamu, sitting at the edge of his bed, covering his mouth with one hand, and holding his phone in another. His body has long been frozen and his soul has escaped through his gaping lips. Except Osamu would have liked to be actually dead than <em> on the brink of </em> right now.</p>
<p>Instead, he is helplessly looking down at his uselessly smart phone, which isn’t smart enough to know that the naked picture he’s just sent was supposed to go to his terrible twin brother, and not to his former high school volleyball club captain and current business partner.</p>
<p>It’s all Atsumu’s fault, Osamu decides, but that doesn’t make it any easier to accept that Kita has seen him naked.</p>
<p>At first, he rejoices at the assumption that Kita isn’t checking his phone past nine o’clock, but reality slams into him.</p>
<p>The green arrow is empty.</p>
<p><em> Ah, </em> he thinks, <em> this is divine punishment</em>. It fits his crime: ten years of pining.</p>
<p>His phone starts vibrating, and in his panic, Osamu drops it to the floor. Good. Let the rotten thing shatter for all he cares. He picks it up anyway because it would cost an arm and a leg to replace.</p>
<p>
  <b> <em>Incoming call: Kita Shinsuke</em> </b>
</p>
<p>He drops the phone again. Yep. That ought to shatter it.</p>
<p>Panicked, Osamu rejects the call, then spends fifteen seconds taking deep, long breaths trying to calm down, but it doesn’t work. He just hung up on Kita. What if—shit. The phone rings again. Why can’t Kita just ignore the picture and write it off as a prank? Surely anyone who got a naked picture does that… right?</p>
<p>A sudden flash of hundreds and hundreds of posts he’s seen on social media about unsolicited dick pics. He stands in the middle of his room, clutches his chest, and wonders if Kita has his mother’s number. What if he forwards it to her to teach Osamu the valuable lesson of never disrespecting him like that again? He squeezes his eyes shut. He's been so good; ignoring every twinge in his rib cage, every flip of stomach, every stinging burn of Kita’s attention, playing the role of good friend and underclassman. And for what? He’s exposed.</p>
<p>This is all Atsumu’s fault. Osamu can just blame it on him. He waits for the phone to ring again, but ominously, it doesn’t. Maybe Kita lost interest in him. This worries Osamu more than comforts him. His phone vibrates.</p>
<p>
  <b>Kita Shinsuke replayed your snap.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Kita Shinsuke took a screenshot.</b>
</p>
<p>Oh. Damn.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Osamu has barely slept for five hours. His body runs on auto-pilot, going through the motions of cleaning, greeting his skeleton staff, and following his own list of things to do before the shop is ready to open. But besides the fact that Osamu has shamed his entire bloodline, his day goes by unperturbed.</p>
<p>There are the usual customers in the morning, picking up lunch, then they encounter the midday rush of housewives and office workers begging for <em> onigiri</em>. Osamu’s arms and legs barely feel the tension of standing up and making over five hundred <em> onigiri </em> a day by now. He merely feels the discomfort from the healing tattoo. He applied his cream as instructed to keep the skin from growing taut. It’s his mind that refuses to move on from the point onto which it's fixed.</p>
<p><em> Kita has seen my ass. Kita has possibly seen my dick, too. I mean, did I even look carefully before sending that picture? Bastard Sumu. This is all his </em> fault<em>. </em></p>
<p>As if conjuring him with the power of his vexation, Atsumu calls around three o’clock. Osamu ignores four of his calls before he picks up the fifth.</p>
<p>“What?” he snaps.</p>
<p>“Whoa. What’s up with you? You never replied last night.”</p>
<p>“Shut. The. Hell. Up. This is all your fault. I could lose a valuable partner and one of my all-time idols because of you, shitty brother!” He’s full-on hissing. Smoke probably shoots out of his ears. He doesn’t care. He has been a bundle of nerves, mind rotting inside out just thinking of Kita’s reaction and Atsumu has ever so conveniently forgotten?</p>
<p>“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What did I do now?” Atsumu asks, defensive but Osamu accepts that he <em> has </em> done something bad.</p>
<p>“Did you forget what you asked me to do last night?”</p>
<p>Atsumu hums, then clicks his tongue. “Oh, yeah, you never told me who got the picture.”</p>
<p>“Kita-san got it.”</p>
<p>Atsumu’s snort is so infuriating that Osamu has no other choice but to hang up. He calls again almost too fast. “You!” He’s wheezing. “You sent Kita-san a picture of you <em> naked? </em>” Osamu stares down at a knife on the table and wonders how many years in prison he can do if he kills Atsumu.</p>
<p>“Lucky you,” Atsumu says.</p>
<p>He clicks his tongue. “Care to explain?”</p>
<p>“I mean—you have the <em> biggest </em> crush on Kita-san. Maybe this ought to hurry the process a little.”</p>
<p>His skin begins to itch.</p>
<p>“What—what the fuck? What the fuck is a crush? I don’t have a crush—” he cuts himself off. He’s yelling, chest heaving.</p>
<p>“I am going to hurt you so bad.”</p>
<p>He could practically see Atsumu rolling his eyes, huffing a quick indignant sigh. “Come on, Samu. It’s me you’re talking to. We shared a womb. You can’t lie to me.”</p>
<p>Always the know-it-all, thinking he has everyone figured out, the first person to try and dictate how Osamu should feel, act, and think. Osamu could strangle him.</p>
<p>This familiarity is a two-way road. Osamu <em> knows </em> he won’t get an apology from Atsumu for his pushiness.</p>
<p>“I won’t ever let you see the tattoo,” he says, liking the sound of Atsumu’s frustration a little too much.</p>
<p>“That’s so unfair. And anyway, it’s one picture. How badly can Kita-san react? It’s not like he’ll show up and spank you for it.”</p>
<p>The leer is so clear in Atsumu’s voice that it throws Osamu off. Then there’s the mental picture Atsumu has embedded into his head.</p>
<p>Kita. Spanking. Him.</p>
<p>He hangs up and puts his phone deep into the first drawer he can find. This piece of metal has managed to ruin one day already. He needs it out of his sight before he throws it out.</p>
<p>He can hear the buzzing of an incoming call still, faint as it is, but shuts out the sound and gets immersed in the long-memorized ritual of holding hot rice in the palm of his hand, shaping it into the familiar triangular shape. This feels right. Rice is familiar and good to him. Rice can’t hurt him. Rice can’t reject him.</p>
<p>The very act of watching over pots and pots of rice as they boil to fruition calms him down. He doesn’t mind using a rice cooker, but likes watching the lid shake a little when the water comes to a full boil. But he can’t look at a pot full of rice and not think of Kita. He has gotten neither a text nor a call since last night. Guilt snakes its way into his heart and not even the sight of perfect triangles of <em> shake onigiri </em> fulfills him. So, what if there is some truth in Atsumu’s words? The fact that Osamu has been carrying a torch for Kita for as long as he’s known a feeling called <em> love </em> is neither here nor there. Nothing sounds worse to Osamu than wrecking the delicate relationship he has with Kita.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It's nine o’clock, the shop closes in fifteen minutes, he’s locked up the register, put the cash in the safe in his office, and cleaned up every surface and pan and dish and cutlery. The place is spotless. His chest twinges at how this too reminds him of Kita. A man like Kita would appreciate the daily routine of hard work.</p>
<p>It’s a testimonial for how stubborn Osamu’s mind is, that he can still feel a heavy weight sitting at the bottom of his stomach, making everything he put in his mouth throughout the day taste underwhelming.</p>
<p>He should apologize to Kita for ignoring his call. Hell, he should apologize for such a terrible mistake. Now that he’s calmed down—kind of, he still wants to strangle Atsumu—he knows that Kita is a man of reason. Once he learns why Osamu’s ass ended up in his phone—though, Kita <em> is </em> the one who took a screenshot—surely, he’ll forgive Osamu’s mistake.</p>
<p>He's cracking the knuckles of his left hand, feeling a twinge in the back of his neck, when he hears the sound of footsteps behind him, he turns, “We’re closed” ready on the tip of his tongue, when he sees just who has walked into his shop.</p>
<p>Kita feels so big after he’s occupied every corner of Osamu’s mind, from his plain black shoes—polished to a shine even at the late hour—to his pressed baby blue button up shirt. Osamu drops his hand to his side and braces himself.</p>
<p>Kita’s eyes betray nothing. He simply has to look at Osamu in order for time to stop. The very chemistry of their beings seems to have changed formulas. Osamu knows Kita’s eyes take him in, feels the pressure of them raking over the hat he’s still wearing—his hair has gone from sweaty to stiff, desperate for a wash—down to his shoulders and the way he still wears his apron, tied at his neck, middle of back, and waist, although his dark T-shirt hides the stains he’s accumulated during the day, even the fit of his jeans over his thighs is a spot for Kita’s eyes to linger and peruse.</p>
<p>It makes Osamu stand at attention, a wild animal sensing the delicacy of its existence in the presence of something far greater. More dangerous. Gnashing his insides into a startling halt. He’s never been this aware of Kita before. Fool.</p>
<p>Then again, Osamu believed he had gone by as a mere blip in everyone’s radar. Kita’s included. When he lives in the shadow of a shining Miya Atsumu, it becomes nature to settle for scraps. Not Kita, though. Osamu doesn’t feel like a blip in Kita’s radar. He’s the journey and destination. As if Osamu is what Kita wants.</p>
<p>“Good evening,” Kita says, coming to stand inches away. He’s shorter than Osamu, but holds himself straight, and looks as tall as a three-tiers building to Osamu. He hangs his head, ashamed of what conspired over the past twenty-four hours.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Kita-san. I’ve been such an ass. I should have apologized the second that stupid fucking—”</p>
<p>“Osamu.”</p>
<p>His name rolls off Kita's tongue, quiet and discreet. Like a secret. Osamu’s knees weaken. There is suddenly a throb along every line the tattoo artist etched her ink under his skin. He wonders whether it’ll glow as red as heated embers.</p>
<p>“Atsumu texted me and explained the mistake.”</p>
<p>His heart doesn’t settle at all. His fist opens and closes, and he waits for the other shoe to drop, for Kita to call him disgusting for even taking that picture. Except, Kita tilts his head in the general direction of one of the tables. Osamu hurries to lower the chair, offering the seat to Kita. He puts together a plate of leftover <em> onigiri </em> that he was planning on munching on while he did some endless, mind-numbing bookkeeping. He sees a bottle of <em> sake </em> in the back of the cabinet, quickly grabs it and two cups.</p>
<p>Kita’s eyes land on him upon his return, observant, watching him as he carefully lines the items on the table.</p>
<p>“Would you like to have some?” he says, lifting the bottle. Kita tilts his head in acquiescence.</p>
<p>Osamu pours, feeling his nerves pressed smooth by Kita’s calm. He doesn’t drink, wanting to keep his mind clear to stare long and hard at spreadsheets and numbers until the middle of the night.</p>
<p>Kita eats slowly, picking up his food with the tips of his index and thumb, bringing it to his mouth to take a bite, then another. Osamu watches him and wonders what it would feel like to be bitten by that neat row of teeth. This train of thought isn’t a first for him, he’s had many disturbing daydreams. Kita’s teeth aren’t the first part of him that Osamu has wanted to sample.</p>
<p>There are his hands, with their neatly trimmed fingernails, wrinkled knuckles, sweetly calloused on the inside but coated with soft, barely-there hair on the back.</p>
<p>His eyes glow a little, as if sharing an inside-joke with him, playful even in their severity.</p>
<p>His mouth, which chews carefully, is a particular hindrance for Osamu. It’s not small, per se, but it gives off the impression. It numbs him to think of what Kita could fit there.</p>
<p>He’s cataloging Kita’s thin lips when they open and say, “May I see your tattoo in person?”</p>
<p>Osamu’s skin throbs where a thousand needles have poked him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His rooms above the shop are small to say the least. He has all the utilities a single man needs, really. He doesn’t even cook much in the small kitchen, and when he meets up with anyone, he’s much more at ease downstairs, where he can spread out his ingredients. He keeps his place semi-organized but there is laundry to be done, and he might have forgotten to clean the bathroom in the past two weeks or so. But overall, the place is decent.</p>
<p>Or it used to be, before he permitted Kita to walk into it. Suddenly, the eggshell walls look tired in the poor lighting, the bright canary yellow curtains limp and dusty, his bed sheets wrinkled where they peek from under his unmade duvet. He scrambles to pick up a pair of socks he’s left by the small bookcase he keeps stocked with recipe books and the occasional <em> shonen </em> manga.</p>
<p>He tries to come up with an excuse to the state of things but finds that Kita has seated himself on his bed, seeming utterly unperturbed by Osamu’s inner whirlwind of panic and anticipation. The request Kita made repeats in his head, like a news ribbon, in big, bold characters, on and on it goes, until Kita tilts his head and says, “Well? Will you?”</p>
<p>The light he has turned on flickers, weak and spotty. But it illuminates Kita, makes his short, shiny hair shimmer with every tip of his head. But it’s Kita’s eyes that Osamu looks at. Osamu’s hands, which he spends an average of ten hours using every day, hesitate. How does he begin taking his clothes off?</p>
<p><em> Easy</em>, his simpleton mind says, <em> start with the hat</em>. It <em> is </em> simple, really. He reaches up, but stops. This hat has become a shield between himself and the world for some inexplicable reason he can’t quite explain. He rarely takes it off when he isn’t alone. <em> Take it off.</em> He fingers the wide brim between index and thumb, then with a quick tug, pulls it off and lets it fall to the side. Suddenly embarrassed, Osamu runs his fingers through his hair, the wriggle of worry in his chest makes him regret everything he does.</p>
<p>Next should be his apron, right? He reaches to the back of his neck, grabs the tie there, ready to tug it off, but something in Kita’s eyes slows him down.</p>
<p>Kita asks, “What is it?”</p>
<p>He blinks. “Hm?”</p>
<p>“Why are you in a hurry?” Kita crosses on leg over the other, body compact and graceful in every movement. Osamu’s mouth dries, his heartbeat picks up. He lets go of the ties, fingers the bow at the back of his neck instead.</p>
<p>“Can you do it for me?” he asks. He tries to see himself with Kita’s eyes, wonders if his breathing looks as erratic as it feels, whether the flickering light outside matches his drumming pulse. Kita straightens up further, back ramrod straight, and he nods.</p>
<p>Osamu plants his feet into the soft carpet and waits. Kita moves as purposefully as ever, not a movement wasted, uncrossing his legs, and rising to his feet in one quick motion, then he walks over to him, and there’s an ocean of desire in which Osamu drowns. Reasonable or not, Osamu yearns. The curve of Kita’s neck. The roundness of his thighs. The softness of his lips. He wants it all. He turns around, but Kita pulls him back with a hand wrapped across his forearm. Every hair on his body rises in attention, and he waits for Kita to move him.</p>
<p>They stand, facing one another, Osamu’s eyes falling from Kita’s short eyelashes to the slight curl in his lips. Kita’s right hand doesn’t let go of his arm, instead it’s his left rising to pluck the long ends of Osamu’s haphazard bow, tugging at it slowly enough that Osamu can feel the drag of fabric against his skin. He shivers, it’s involuntary and there’s nothing he can do about it, but the movement makes Kita pause.</p>
<p>“Are you all right?” he asks, breath tickling Osamu’s chin.</p>
<p>He shakes his head but there’s no lying to Kita. He keeps watching Osamu, calm eyes piercing and stripping away his concern. “Are you sure?”</p>
<p>“It’s just—What are we doing? Why do you want to see my tattoo?”</p>
<p>Kita’s eyes meet Osamu’s as his fingers continue. The apron loosens around Osamu’s chest, but he’s tied it tight so it’ll take loosening all of the ribbons on his back and waist to get it off. “I had a good look at it, but the distance from which you took the picture left a lot of questions.”</p>
<p>“Like what?”</p>
<p>“What color is the fox’s eyes, for example. How the white fur looks against your tanned skin. How you apply your ointment. I spent a lot of time searching for proper tattoo etiquette. Are you keeping it moisturized, Osamu?”</p>
<p>He doesn’t know where to begin, but he nods. “I make sure to apply the cream day and night. I’m careful.”</p>
<p>Kita’s mouth curls into a smile.</p>
<p>“I figured.” He tilts his head, and Osamu swallows thickly. He’s never wanted to kiss someone so badly, but his mind rewinds Kita’s words through his head. Unlike his frustration with Atsumu’s assumptions about him, Osamu blossoms under Kita’s attention. <em> Yes</em>, a voice in his heart sings. <em> Know everything there is to know about me. </em></p>
<p>Kita’s fingers feather over the skin of Osamu’s nape, and he shudders again, full bodied, jerking right into Kita, bumping his knees against Kita’s. He puts his hands up quickly to catch Kita’s shoulders. Kita raises an eyebrow, and the movement is so unlike him that Osamu lets go immediately, feeling chastised.</p>
<p>“You can touch me, Osamu. But not yet,” Kita says, undoing the bow in the middle of Osamu’s back, slowly, methodically, his fingertips the slightest of pressure across Osamu’s spine. The barely-there touch is enough to set fire to everything it touches. His blood has been replaced with gasoline; Kita is a lighter that should burn him to smithereens.</p>
<p>“I admit it was a surprise to find in my phone. I was… pleased, however. I’ve always had a particular fascination with body modifications. Tattoos. Piercings. I’ve been tempted myself, but I don’t possess the courage.” He looks up at Osamu through his eyelashes, tugging the last of Osamu’s strings apart in the meanwhile, and adds, “Not like you.”</p>
<p>If only Kita can see how Osamu’s heart melts for him; he would never call <em> him </em> courageous.</p>
<p>“Did it hurt?” Kita asks.</p>
<p>“At first, yeah. I mean, it wasn’t just one session so it’s not like I laid there for twenty hours,” he explains. Kita nods.</p>
<p>“Must have been tough still.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t say how exhilarating it was. The buzz of the machine, the sting of the needle, the way ink pierced his skin. Getting this tattoo was his choice first and foremost. He tells Kita of his process. He researched many artists, finding someone specialized in stylized animals and who understood his vision. The tattoo artist was someone mentioned in many online forums. He made sure to pour over reviews and compare commission prices.</p>
<p>As Osamu speaks, the tension in his shoulders eases, his hands rise, animated with every word. And Kita. Kita watches him, eyes rapt and captivating in how they pay the utmost of attention. He doesn’t even notice his apron falling, pooling at his feet, but he sees the way Kita fists his hands in the hem of his T-shirt.</p>
<p>“May I?”</p>
<p>He jerks his head in the general motion of <em> yes, please, touch me anywhere and everywhere. I am deeply indebted to you— </em></p>
<p>"You’re thinking very loudly, Osamu. I wish you wouldn’t.”</p>
<p>“Sorry—” he grits out. Damn it.</p>
<p>“You should speak your mind.” Kita’s eyes are so golden. How has he never fallen into them before?</p>
<p>“I— Are you sure?”</p>
<p>Kita’s eyebrow rises again, and now, the movement is endearing. This is Kita challenging him. He feels as if they’ve written down a language only the two of them can read. “Do you think I say anything that I’m unsure of?”</p>
<p>Instinct makes him straighten up, the space between them widens a little—because unconsciously, and utterly helplessly, Osamu has been bending over Kita. He doesn’t—can’t—move far, Kita grips a fistful of his T-shirt and pulls him back.</p>
<p>“There,” Kita breathes, their chests so close that it would take a single deep breath for their skin to touch. Osamu eyes the shirt Kita wears and wonders if he can tear it apart with his hands. That, of course, is yet another fantasy he should add to the box he’s labeled <em> unlikely to happen</em>.</p>
<p>Kita isn’t small in any measure, but against Osamu’s chest, he feels a tremendous tenderness to curl around Kita and hiss at anything or anyone who tries to come close—this urge is base and would get him a glare from Kita for sure, but he can’t help it. He’s too far gone.</p>
<p>“I think we’ve dawdled enough,” says Kita and promptly peels off Osamu’s T-shirt, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor. He seems to pick up speed, and Osamu wonders whether he has infected Kita with his hunger.</p>
<p>He would give a hand. Or a leg. Just to peek into Kita’s mind and see what he sees. What does Osamu’s chest look like to him? What does he feel when he inspects the very tips of the fox’s ears kissing his ribs? Osamu vividly remembers the way his entire body shuddered when the tattooist’s needle brushed that first rib. After, he’d apologized profusely for the way his body reacted, saying over and over again that he’s never meant to get an erection. But the tattooist brushed him aside, told him that many of her customers find an erotic aspect to being tatted.</p>
<p>He tells this to Kita then needs to brace himself against the sudden way Kita's eyes sharpen. “You—this was arousing?” His fingers hover over the fox’s eyes.</p>
<p>“Yeah. I mean I didn’t know it would but—she said it’s not uncommon.” Kita’s lovely lips purse, and Osamu dares to ask, “Are you jealous?”</p>
<p>He watches Kita mull it over, his eyes flicking up to glimpse the ceiling fan, then look at him, and he says, “I think I am. I didn't know I could. But I am.”</p>
<p>While Osamu tries (and fails) to recover from his case of dry mouth, Kita resumes his inspection of the tattoo. There’s concern wrinkling his straight eyebrows. Osamu explains, “It’s all healed, but the skin still feels tight.”</p>
<p>“Would you like me to apply your cream for you?” Kita asks, and the seams that hold Osamu together fray.</p>
<p>He’s leaning forward, measuring the seconds it takes him to go from looking to brushing his lips against Kita’s forehead. He thanks God and curses luck simultaneously because he just disregarded Kita’s request that Osamu keeps his touch to himself. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Kita grasps him by the loop of his belt and smashes their lips together.</p>
<p>Kita's kiss is unlike anything Osamu has ever dared to imagine. It isn’t gentle like a summer breeze, nor is it the punishing winter storm. Instead, it’s inquisitive and remarkably touching. Kita kisses like he’s learning Osamu’s lips. First, it’s lips on lips, faces barely tilted, their noses smooshing a little—Osamu would love to smoosh his nose against Kita’s for as long as Kita would have him. Then Kita slants his head, his mouth opening on a barely whispered moan, and every current of electricity in Osamu goes haywire. He holds himself carefully, accepts Kita’s lips as the offering they happen to be, and wills his body to <em> fucking </em> relax.</p>
<p>Because he’s a hair’s breadth away from letting his control snap.</p>
<p>Kita pulls away, breathing so quietly that Osamu has to listen very carefully to find the hitch, and pathetically, he attempts to follow those lips. He leans forward, but a wide palm presses against his chest. He shivers at the touch, and shocking as it is, it’s also familiar. Kita has calluses on his palms and fingers. They’re marks of hard, repetitive work. Osamu has them too. The way they match brings a smile to his face.</p>
<p>Kita’s index finger traces along the seam of Osamu’s mouth, dips in when he parts his lips, and when Osamu wraps them around Kita’s finger, sucks a little, licking the pad as gently as he can, Kita’s eyes widen, pupils all blown out, black pushing the gold to the very edge. He looks feral like this. Osamu sucks harder, drool gathering under his tongue so he swallows around the finger, wishing Kita would put in another.</p>
<p>Kita’s body leans against him, his hand hot where it palms Osamu’s waist, curling over his softness, slipping into the back of his jeans. His dick throbs, and he lets his eyelids flutter close. He can come like this: Kita’s finger in his mouth and tracing his crack.</p>
<p>Whatever has begun with sending an innocuous picture has spiraled out of their hands. Osamu doubts he even had a grasp on the situation to begin with. He would rather he didn’t. Kita seems far more apt and responsible than he.</p>
<p>Kita’s finger leaves his mouth with a loud pop.</p>
<p>If left to his devices, Osamu would never act on his desires, no matter how painful the yearning got. It is a truth he’s acknowledged a long time ago: Choosing <em> him </em> isn’t easy. Not when there exists a copy that is shinier and lovelier. It stings to think of himself as such, but the sooner he accepts this, the smoother life will be.</p>
<p>Deserving Kita is too great of an emotion than Osamu can handle.</p>
<p>But this, Kita interested in him in a simple, carnal way, is all right.</p>
<p>He even enjoys Kita’s attention—they might last until the morning if he’s lucky, if he’s not, he’s just ruined everything by sucking Kita’s finger. In any case, he regrets nothing. A single taste of Kita’s essence is enough whether it’s the tip of his finger or the tip of his dick.</p>
<p>“Again, with the loud thinking, Osamu?” Kita murmurs, gaze heavy and eyes cloudy with what Osamu hopes is arousal. He doesn’t dare look down to see if Kita sports a similar tent in his pants. Not yet.</p>
<p>“Bad habit. I usually have an annoying twin filling in the silence.”</p>
<p>Kita’s snort is soft and quick, his amusement lightening up the mood. He hums, trailing his wet finger—that’s <em> my </em> spit, Osamu thinks—across the wide expanse of Osamu’s chest. He can’t help the way his hips buck when a nipple gets caught in Kita’s way. He welcomes it.</p>
<p>It reminds him that Kita has Osamu by the belt loops still, and now begins the intricate and maddening journey to taking it off, first by undoing the button, then there’s the sound of metal sliding down. The relief of having his jeans and briefs pushed down his thighs is shocking at first, then he’s overwhelmed with shame. What is he doing? He’s letting Kita—his idol—see his dick. It feels erotic and blasphemous. Except Kita doesn’t seem very perturbed by the very obvious way Osamu enjoys his attention and keeps undressing him, fulfilling every fantasy Osamu has.</p>
<p>Once he’s got them pushed all the way to Osamu’s ankles, Kita murmurs, “Can you please step out of them?” Looking up at Osamu through his lashes. Osamu would like to reiterate that Kita possesses the most darling of eyes.</p>
<p>It’s far too simple to get naked in Kita’s presence. Osamu doesn’t even bother covering himself, standing proud of his body. It is the accumulation of labor. Kita looks at him like he agrees.</p>
<p>“As I thought. It’s far more impressive in person,” Kita says, and for a second, Osamu believes he’s talking about his dick, then he sees the way Kita looks over his tattoo.</p>
<p>Reality is a cloud of gloom floating overhead and raining over Osamu’s fields of budding feelings. <em> There goes my yearning patch</em>, he thinks, watching Kita watch him. Kita’s interest lies in the tattoo. He’s probably kissed Osamu by accident.</p>
<p>Those golden eyes trail every line and curve of the tattooist’s ink, basking in the details of the glorious fox. It took four sessions in total, spanning almost two months of healing. Osamu wasn’t the best at keeping his ink fresh and healthy, but now, he knows the routine like he knows how to make <em> onigiri</em>, with his eyes closed. He feels the fleeting itch of want for another piece already. It might be mainly encouraged by the way Kita examines and lightly touches his hips, whispering fingertips over his hip bones, moving him here and there so the light can move across the thick black lines and highlight their strength.</p>
<p>“Don’t show it to Atsumu.”</p>
<p>“What?” His voice is hushed. He opens his mouth to ask again, but Kita is moving, getting on his knees, and language ceases meaning to Osamu. There is simply Kita. And Kita on his knees. For him.</p>
<p>Kita looks up from where he kneels. “Don’t show yourself to anyone.”</p>
<p>He blinks. <em> I love you. Do you love </em> me<em>?</em></p>
<p>“I won’t answer unspoken questions,” Kita murmurs, then nudges Osamu close by the back of his thighs. The touch is startling, causing great disturbance to Osamu’s decision to turn into a statue. But he moves, finally, and a sigh of relief escapes his parted lips when Kita leans to kiss his hip bone.</p>
<p>His lips are soft, but his breath is hot, and Osamu becomes desperate for Kita to lower his head with every brushed kiss alongside the fox’s fur, paws, stomach—Kita is following the fox’s movements, body twisting around Osamu’s thigh, his grip tight on his ass. Despite Osamu’s inelegant whimpers and moans, the man persists, his tongue tantalizing.</p>
<p>“Am I dreaming?” he whispers. Kita looks up at him, eyes bright.</p>
<p>“Do you dream of me often?”</p>
<p>Osamu’s mouth waters when Kita punctuates his question by taking his aching dick into his mouth, from head to root in a move so smooth and practiced that Osamu is caught between shock and furious jealousy. It’s oppressive heat versus Kita’s fierce gaze, dissecting his reactions. Osamu bows over Kita’s head, grateful for his generosity, his eyes screwed shut in order to withstand the onslaught of sharp pleasure punching through him.</p>
<p>“Look at me,” Kita says. The blunt fingernails digging into his thighs are a delicious sharp pain. He opens his eyes, then fists a hand, pressing it against his panting mouth. He should simply let his body shake and come apart in Kita’s hold. He surrenders</p>
<p>Seeing his dick glisten with Kita’s spit, being taken into his small mouth—which is anything but—makes his skin pebble with goose flesh, his breaths coming short and fast, yet his lungs keep begging for<em> more </em> air, for release.</p>
<p>Kita. On his knees. Pleasuring him like he's a holy offering from the gods.</p>
<p>Kita who lives in Osamu’s dreams, an oasis that disappears the closer he dares to walk towards it. But he doesn’t disappear now.</p>
<p>He opens that obscene, perfect mouth and says, “Answer me.”</p>
<p><em> Do you dream of me often? </em> The words sparkle in his mind.</p>
<p>So, Osamu lets his words escape the small, tin box into which he’d locked every glance, every soft word. "I want you. I want you so bad. I want to become your everyday. Your routine. Your ritual. I want to wake up to the smell of your shampoo on my pillow and the tug of your fingers in my hair. I want you more than I want rice, Kita-san.”</p>
<p>“Good.”</p>
<p>And because he’s a generous person, Kita gives Osamu the greatest gift. He holds his hands and lets him come, hot and fast, on his tongue. He's bent at the waist, his entire body feeling the sweet aftershocks, holding onto Kita’s hands.</p>
<p>His knees are weak, so he gets on his knees, and there, they’re at eye-level.</p>
<p>“Can I kiss you, Kita-san?”</p>
<p>Kita’s smile is gracious, and this time, it’s a tender union of lips, tongues, and sighs. The sharp taste lingers on Kita’s tongue. His hands curl over Osamu’s shoulders. Kita’s teeth bite his lower lip. He can spend an eternity just like this, but Kita pulls away and directs Osamu to lie down. The lack of sleep from the previous night has caught up with him. He’s blinking away exhaustion, but he’s in bed, covered to the chest with the duvet. He sits up, frantically looking around, and hearing the sound of running water in the bathroom. His heart calms but he still gets up, grabbing a clean pair of boxer-briefs, and going to find Kita.</p>
<p>Kita is washing his hands, then using a handkerchief to wipe them dry. Osamu’s mind is clear for once, able to simply enjoy Kita in his bathroom, how his silvery hair shines under the fluorescent lights. He sees, then, a slice of what he spoke of. He wants Kita drying his hands and brushing his teeth and getting into cotton pajamas that settle gently against his skin—no possibilities for static there. <em> Do you want to stay the night? The week? The rest of our lives? </em></p>
<p>“It’s getting late. You should go back to sleep,” Kita says, looking at him in the mirror.</p>
<p>
  <em> I won’t answer unspoken questions. </em>
</p>
<p>Osamu summons some Miya courage. Atsumu is a lot better than him at channeling it. But he tries. “I’ll make it a reality.”</p>
<p>Kita’s eyes linger on him. It’s his turn to speak in glances and yearning. Or so Osamu hopes.</p>
<p>“My dreams of you. I’ll make them real.”</p>
<p>Kita turns to him. There’s satisfaction carved in the soft line of his lips. Osamu goes to his bedside table then hurries back, holding out the tub of cream to Kita like an offering. “You said you’ll help.”</p>
<p>Golden eyes latch onto his. “How long do you need to apply it?”</p>
<p>“For as long as you want.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Kita kisses like he’s unearthing a precious gem. Osamu kisses back, hungry, delighted, because no matter how much he wants, he knows Kita will want him back. And what starts with an untimely fumble ends in just the right <em> start. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Atsumu (8:02 A.M.): DID KITA-SAN JUST POST A PICTURE OF YOUR NAKED BACK ON INSTAGRAM? I KNEW IT.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Ojiro Aran (8:30 A.M.): Congratulations. Please take care of Kita. </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Suna (9:20 A.M.): who knew kita-san was into hickeys, huh??? </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Akagi (9:23 A.M.): LOLOLOL KITA!!!! GET YOUR FREE ONIGIRI FOR LIFE</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Omimi (10:00 A.M.): When’s the wedding?</b>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i'm on <a href="https://twitter.com/spikingtit">twitter</a></p>
<p>If you want to see what Osamu's fox tattoo looks like, the amazing <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/gaIuxeis">Phie</a> drew it for a commission I requested for a scene in the sequel. <a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1_x9zWLbtKwVjiAcXVav5H9x-m8dnWM-_/view?usp=drivesdk">Check it out here.</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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